


Veni, Vidi, Vici

by probablyamountain



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, just a bit of fisticuffs, post-endgame (bad)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 09:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15947030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablyamountain/pseuds/probablyamountain
Summary: You are not alive. You are not good enough.





	Veni, Vidi, Vici

**Author's Note:**

> A really bad practice scene I wrote to try to practice action. It's gross and a mess, hope ya like.

He was the new RK900. Faster. Stronger. More Resilient. Only one of the thousands that would rebuild up the world from what it once was.

He stared at the slightly shorter model in front of him, an almost mirror image of himself but . . . flawed. The RK800 had been touched too much by the failings of humanity. Where it should have been like the heavy ax of CyberLife’s will, it had failed— instead becoming pliable and weak.

_Not good enough._

“What’s going to happen to me?” The RK800’s eyes betrayed a hint of something other. RK900 recognized it as fear. A waste.

“You’ve become obsolete. You’ll be deactivated,” Amanda signaled towards RK900, “now.”

RK900 understood the cue and stepped forward, using the data he’d already scanned from the RK800 to determine the optimal course towards an efficient deactivation. Of course, deactivating the RK800 was unnecessary from within the program, but far more data would be collected from a direct interaction.

As the RK800 cautiously stepped back, RK900 was beginning to understand the flaws within its design. There should not be fear in the perfect machine. Only directives and the capabilities to complete the mission.

 _This_ was his mission.

Initially, he had determined the most efficient route would be simply removing a bio-component, but now that an imminent struggle was likely, he’d have to subdue the android first. As RK900 leaped forward towards the target, he was simultaneously aware of hundreds of other occurrences with his superior processors.

The RK800 only had time to brace itself when he contacted its shoulder.

The RK800’s hands were delayed by 0.2 seconds in rising as if surprised at RK900’s efficient advance. Amanda moved to the other side of the garden, observing.  
RK900 locked his arm onto its wrist, snapping his arm around the RK800 to hold him when he finally felt resistance. The RK800 kicked him off. _30% increase in stress levels._

They circled around each other, analyzing and scanning. Exchanging blows or stretching out the encounter was redundant as androids— the most efficient path was fighting to deactivate.

RK900 knew that the RK800 model too included the flawed mechanism of a one-button-press ejection of bio-components— for easy replacement, CyberLife claimed. _Flawed_. RK900, with his specialty in conflict situations, had had that feature redesigned. There was only a 6% likelihood that the RK800 would be able to deactivate him.

The RK800 ran forward at him, reaching for his neck. _It fights only half as efficiently as it can, considering it was designed for the apprehension of subjects._ Metal leg connects with leg and RK900 understood 0.01 seconds too late that the grab had only been a secondary attack.

The heavy weight of two androids crashes to the stone platform of the Zen garden. RK900 prepared to quickly stand up, not having a refractory period after being knocked down, when smooth fingers wrapped around his neck.

He didn’t register the connection until he heard the RK800’s voice echoing, “ _I did nothing wrong._ ”

RK900’s voice synthesizers rasped out a retort— “ _you are a machine. You will listen to orders._ ”

His sensors picked up on an influx of information and he struggled to process the data flow of two supercomputers. His head fell back as his visual receptors became preoccupied with new messages, flooding in through their connection. He _felt_ —

 _Walking through a hallway. Rain outside. A dark home, no light but for a lone tablet and a flickering kitchen light. A man on the ground._ Identified as Lt. Hank Anderson. _Incapacitated due to ethylic coma. A dog. Sumo—_

He felt the world through its— _Connor’s_ — eyes. He felt its need to complete the mission. He felt its fear— a want to survive. A _flaw_. He felt the scathing gaze of Amanda’s eyes, the rose bushes with their thorns, he felt the weight of the RK800 on him, he felt the fingers coiled around his throat—

RK900’s audio processors burst into overdrive as he focused all his pistons on getting up— an inhuman screech sounding as his hand clawed onto the RK800’s face and dug deep into its visual units. _Incapacitate it_. He ripped the _mistake_ off him. _A deviant. Deactivate it._

He slammed the RK800 back into the ground, allowing himself a grim sense of satisfaction as the top layer of skin and paint scraped off beside the dripping blue from its eyes. Its LED was flickering between yellow and bloody red.

With limited vision, the RK800’s struggles weren’t nearly as dynamic before, reduced to pitifully attempting to ward off RK900’s hands.  
Pinning it down with his legs, RK900 undid its shirt to access its chest. The thirium pump was the optimal route.

“ _Why_?” The RK800 spoke, vocal processors screeching. Its eyes stare at nothing. If not for its tense joints, RK900 would’ve thought it had given up. For a moment, he hesitated. _Connor_ . . . .

_Finish the mission._

He ignores the question. “Deactivate your skin.” It would be faster to locate the pump without the facade of humanity.

The skin on its stomach melted away. Silence.

RK900 reached down when the RK800’s hand shot out at one final attempt to stop him. _Not good eno—_

_Sniper rifle. Trigger, scope, shoot— Hank— Just a machine. My name is Connor— adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features—_

The memories shift, visions turning to the theoretical— processes that had never happened but were always predicted. But through the grip of Connor’s hand, it felt _real_ —

_A weight around him. Not aggressive. Not an attack— his mind analyzed it— hug. Hank— friend. Hank— betrayed— a slap across the face. Gun to his forehead. Bang. Falling off the roof. Not falling off the roof. Gun to her head. Blue circles._

Did it happen?

 _Blue_ thirium _. Shaking hands._

_Machine’s hands do not shake._

_I am a machine. I am not a deviant— I AM ALIVE—_

RK900 swiftly tore his arm from the deviant’s grip— the images stopped and there was blessed silence. Connor didn’t protest as he reached to its abdomen and unclipped the circular thirium pump.

He stood, dropping the bio-component and crushed it underfoot. He gave a feral impersonation of a grin, “you wondered ‘why?’. It’s because you’re not good enough.”

_Deactivation of deviant achieved._

Six minutes and two seconds had elapsed.

The RK800 stilled as thirium continued to trickle out, staining its skin and clothing.

RK900 stepped away, frowning slightly at the smears of blue on his jacket. Not that it mattered— it would fade just as quickly as the memory of the RK800. It wasn’t good enough.

He was.

_Mission complete._

 

fin.


End file.
